The Science of Fabrication
by Meanders01
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a traitor, having left England for Clanker Austria three years before. However, a client hires him to investigate a series of strange suicides in London, and he is brought back to his home country, where he meets his new companion, a Mr John Watson.


**_A/N_: Whilst it might not be obvious in this chapter, the Holmes (and soon Watson) are Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman's. The cases will also be based on theirs.**

* * *

Sherlock sat on a wooden seat, waiting. The hall he was in was colossal; stone-walled and full of doors. It stretched on – forever, one might say, if one lacked the intelligence of Sherlock Holmes. The floor was made up of grey flagstones, although a few slightly tatty rugs had been thrown down in places, and high on the walls were tapestries, also falling apart, but obviously fairly old; they lacked the now customary floating whales.

Footsteps betrayed the man approaching Sherlock; his shoes' impact on the ground made the hall ring with echoes.  
"Mr Homes," he said and Sherlock turned to him. He was a tall man, and thickset too. He had a snipers eye and the poise of a military man. He was dressed smartly enough, in the guise of a footman, or something similar, but he obviously offered extra services too; in his left pocket was a pistol, and Sherlock didn't doubt his ability to shoot it, even if hand guns were not the man's area of expertise. Also adding to this was his English accent, at odds with the remote Irish setting of the house he was; he wasn't just a local help, but specially imported. By his side was a large dog-wolf fabrication, straining on the chain which held it by the man's side.  
"If you'd like to come this way?"

Sherlock rose and followed, without speaking a word. The man hadn't waited for a reply, he'd just set off again the way he'd come, dog trotting at his heel. They walked further into the building, and presumably to the office of Sherlock's client, who'd paid for him to return from Austria, and somehow managed to get the authorities to overlook his traitor status. Though Sherlock supposed Mycroft had assisted with that.

They walked through the hall, and reached a door, one of many that they'd passed, and the man halted. He gave it a quick rap with his knuckles, and then pushed it open.  
"In here, please." he said, and Sherlock entered. The man followed him, and waited by the door.

"Thank you, Sebastian." A voice came from the far side of the large room, and Sherlock's eyes instantly alighted on the large mahogany desk, several metres away. The space behind it was filled with shadow, and Sherlock could only just make out the silhouette of a man. "You can go now. Take Baskerville with you."  
The man nodded, and left, pulling the dog behind him.

"Please, Mr Holmes, take a seat." An arm extended from the darkness, and indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Sherlock walked towards it, and then sat down. As he did so, the man pulled a thick rope, and a large jellyfish-like creature, hanging above the desk, illuminated, allowing Sherlock to see his employer.  
The man was small and grinning nervously. He was casually dressed, with dark eyes and animated features, and his head was close-shaven. Within seconds, Sherlock had made his mind up about him.  
"I'm James," he said, leaning forward. He was Irish – of course he was, this was probably his birthplace.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock replied, stonily. He had had no wish to leave Vienna, and even less wish to interact with people.  
"You came highly recommended to me," replied James – Sherlock realized he was unaware of his surname - pulling a face. "I'd like to hire you to, uh, solve a case for me?"  
"Yes." said Sherlock. "Obviously."  
"Well then. Um, a friend of mine died recently. It looked like, uh, suicide. But he wouldn't. And now the police think it may be linked to, uh, some other ones-"  
"I know about that," Sherlock interrupted bluntly. "You'd like me to investigate."  
"Yeah. I've got it all set up; access to your old laboratory, and a companion. To, uh, accompany you. He'll be writing reports on how you're getting on. He'll meet you at the airship port. You'll have to find your own place to stay, however."

There was a pause, and then the man continued.  
"I've had some information on the case written up-"  
Sherlock cut him off sharply "Unnecessary. I've been keeping track on it."  
"Right. Well then. Your airship leaves to London in, uh," he glanced at the clock on the wall, a clanker contraption, Sherlock noticed "An hour. My man will accompany you."

Sherlock got up to leave, and so did James. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. Uh, will you see yourself out?"  
"Yes."  
"Good luck."

Sherlock left the room, and walked back along the hall. His coat, dark blue and long, swirled behind him. At the entrance to the house, at the far end of the corridor, the man was waiting.  
"This way, Mr Holmes," he said, and indicated a large cow-fabrication waiting in the driveway, of a type which Sherlock had never seen before. It was dark brown, and extraordinarily flat backed, although in two places on its back, and one on it's a head, a lump rose up; presumably to sit upon. Sherlock knew little about how these things worked – he preferred the clear logic of Eastern Europe – but the creature had obviously taken a long time to engineer. There were even smaller lumps up its abnormally thick legs, as a ladder up onto its back. A harness was attached to it, and from it, poles supported a thick canvas, probably to hold off the rain which looked ready to burst from the sky above.

The journey took half an hour, and most of it was spent in silence. At one point, Sherlock inquired after his driver's army career (apparently, it was 'perfectly good, thank you sir') and at another point he informed him of his employees lack of interest in the fairer sex. He didn't get an answer to that, only a smirk. About half way through the journey, the rain started, and the sound of it beating against the canvas continued for the rest of the journey. Sherlock played with a couple of cogs he'd found in the pocket of his coat. He considered what he'd heard of so far on the case, and attempted to gather his thoughts.

And eventually, they arrived at the port with just ten minutes to spare. Sherlock gave the driver a nod, and was escorted onto an awaiting airship by an impatient stewardess – they were now getting women to do male jobs, not that it made a difference to Sherlock – who requested he arrive earlier next time.


End file.
